


Overhearing a Nightmare

by suenoteamor



Series: Vestments of Purple and Gold [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Coping Mechanisms, Dreams, S04-S06, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 23:17:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suenoteamor/pseuds/suenoteamor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those wisps of thought between night and waking breath, never recalled in the morn - generally better off so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overhearing a Nightmare

_“We can fix this.”_

_“Dean, it’s not broken”_

The hell was any of that supposed to mean. Lies and more lies in a ring of fire, pressing thoughts into my spleen where they should never be, and then I leave you. Leave and leave again, and you deserve it. You left us how many times.

I don’t care that you died, or that you pulled me out of hell, or that you died again. I don’t care if you rip the damn world up and kill all your brothers. I don’t care about any of it, but you left. And that I do care about.

Does that make me selfish? Hell yeah, maybe it does. Cruel? Well, I was molded that way. You should know. Saw it better than most, didn’t you?

What does it make you then? Blind follower of little faith. Sad little soldier all alone in daddy’s field? I saw you fill yourself with pills and serums of all kinds, and get off on the survivors. Created your own little “den of iniquity” and then tried to judge my actions. So we avoided that, but it’s still you, will always be you until neither of us exist and after.

When you die, oh when you die. The earth might just spawn anew over the little tiff, because that is what you are worth. So little and so much. That is what you think and what I think and what anyone should think, right?

 

You killed for me, and I’ll never save you. I didn’t even save you when you needed it. Doesn’t matter if you wanted to die, I would’ve let you. It’s glorious, right. I’m so damn righteous. Let you die and I get to shine on in my little wayward style. Banging girls and living up the hedonism of the century.

I remember when you told me that you were my new god.  You had it a little backwards. I am your new god. Not even new, we’ve had this little arrangement for quite some time now. I don’t much think it’s going to end. Just try to. Kill me. That could do it. I’d kill you. But you can’t. You can’t kill God, Cas. You can’t kill your father, though you’d stab your brother. You’d kill a love over your mother, but you can’t kill me. You can’t kill your fearless leader.

You’re just such a fool, kid. Yes, you child. Not a thought. Not a prayer for what happens to you when this is all through. Blast you to pieces again, I’m not putting you back together, because I’m doing God right. I’m honest. And I’m not hiding, and if you want to kill me, do it now before I implode and take you the rest of the way down with me.

But you won’t, because you can’t. Can’t kill your creator and own creation.

But I’d love to see you try.

Just try.

I led you, fearlessly, into the pit, and I’m not letting you back out.  So you can throw me wherever you want, because somewhere in that feathered brain of yours, I’ll still be there. Kicking away and driving off without you, leaving you to bleed on the pavement, and to die on a suicide mission.

Because that’s who I am.

I have commitment issues out the ass, but I can commit to this.

I will destroy you, because I can, and you are worth so much more than that. Worth much more than my liquor or lubed up romances or television soaps. Even worth more than motor oil and sweat, so I will destroy you. Take you down to the river and drown you in prayers to a new book and new master, until you drink the water by necessity and drown in new verse. Death will flee from you, though you chase him, and I will be the locusts with lion’s teeth, while your blood paints my breastplate. You’ll be in lore, and the people will cry _Cassiel Ires, Kyrie Cassiel,_ while you scream my litanies and shred their ears.

And you will shriek, while the others answer, “ _Busdir o-Cassiel!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I think I like to play too much on Dean's reaction to himself in Endverse. Just seeing what he's capable of regardless of whether or not the apocalypse happened, and the idea haunting him to this extent. This probably would have taken place somewhere in season six, before the awkwardness of S07 and then "holy shit purgatory!" S08, but I don't know. Take it how you want. It was a speed-writing test anyways.


End file.
